Be My Sun
by moonshin3
Summary: This story follows the events conducted and set into motion by Lucy Lott; an ex journalist looking for a new angle and a new direction in life. She has motives set on the Sons and will do anything to get into their fold. But who's side is she playing for, can she stay alive within a world most new to her, and will she become one with the leather or will it destroy her?
1. Chapter 1

She was playing her strengths; sitting at a small round table, a mug of coffee and a heap of shiny folders set before her -the folders full of her work, her pieces - a portfolio of sorts.  
She was wearing a small simple patterned dress, buttoned to the throat; high heels the shade of manila envelopes, stockings to smooth her legs, hair down – fried and long, - a bowling cap, and her reading glasses.

She was taking a sip of her coffee when the door chimed announcing his arrival. He ambled inside, a dark man, well pressed, and kind faced. He scanned the room and found her eyes, walked over, sat down in the seat across from her place at the table. The waitress came over, aproned, to pour his cup of coffee. He nodded his thanks and then spoke to the girl in the dress.

"Lucille Lott, if I recall correctly, and what, may I ask, is the purpose of this meeting?"

"Lieutenant, I have a proposition for you."

* * *

She was playing her strengths, barging into the clubhouse as if invited, her ego showing, she'd undone the top three buttons of her ensemble - revealing a bit of the small red lace that lay beneath - she'd swapped her professional heels for a glittery pair on the taxi ride over.

"Who's the boss here?"

A room full of shaggy heads turned to look, a dozen studded men who should have been intimating.

"That'd be me. Who are you?" A large man stepped front and center, his presence looming, a stature of power.

She stepped up, into his shadow.

So this was Jackson Teller, spoken word's reputation did no justice.

She stretched out her hand, an offering. He simply gazed upon it, with no quickness to move. She withdrew.

"I'm Lucy."

"And what do you want, Lucy?" An Irish voice from the crowd.

"I have an offer for you boys."

* * *

"What kind of proposition?"

"An offering; my expertise as an investigator."

"They told me you were a journalist."

"An investigative journalist."

Lieutenant Eli Roosevelt looked at her for a moment, then down at the table. He picked from the top of her stack of folders, opened it. He extracted a stapled piece and began to read.

"It's good. You should stick to your day job."

"It's fluff work. I want the real stuff. The action."

"There's only one source of action you could be after in Charming,"

She nodded. "SAMCROW."

* * *

"Are you a cop?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a writer."

"Fucking journo," that same Irish voice.

Jax held up his hand, "hush Chibs. "

"Hey, no names!" Chibs said as he stood up from his seat, he spat on the cement on his way out the door.

Jax fixed his gaze on the girl, Lucy. "What d'you want?"

"Oh, the hostility." She looked around for a moment, absorbing, mentally, a picture of the room. "I'm moving on. I want a way out of the media world. I'm looking for a new start."

"And where does that put me?"

"I'm going to need protection. " She crossed her stockinged thighs and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward. "It's a trade, you see."

"I don't see. Maybe you could clear it up."

"You want the Sons. I can get you the sons. What I ask for in return; security, a safeguard. Both physically an - and from the law."

* * *

"And what does that have to do with my club?" He bit his bottom lip, flicking his eyes across the room, probably shooting a look at one of his boys, a second hand or just an old friend.

She wondered briefly what he thought of her, standing there, within the club's dingy atmosphere, looking rough but still well pressed in comparison. She could almost see the place where her heel's print had disturbed the layer of dust on the floor.

She took a few small clicks closer to Jax, close enough to rest her hand on his chest.

"Everything." A small step back, an intake of breath. "I hope. I have an in. With Lieutenant Roosevelt. I'll keep him off you, feed him false trails, keep you and your guys proper warning of all activity. "

"What's this do for you?"

"Well honey.. all I need is to be let in. Be my out."

* * *

_End of Chapter One._


	2. Chapter 2

"Welcome to headquarters, Ms. Lott."

It was a small room, dim and far upstairs, behind an incognito metal door. Inside there was a wall - an entire wall - dedicated to the Sons; a collage of mug shots and stalker quality candids, newspaper clippings, and a rainbow of push pins.

"You'll bring any and all information here." He said this while motioning towards the large maple table that dominated the center of the room. We'll meet Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights to update and keep each other within the loop. This is only going to work if we keep communication frequent-"

"Three times a week? Isn't that a bit much?"

"_Frequent_, and honest. Have a close look at the wall Lott. Gain knowledge, more than names. I'm going to grab some coffee before it's gone. Want me to have a secretary bring some up?"

"Oh no Lieutenant, I'm quite alright."

He left the door open and began to head down the carpeted hall; his well shined shoes make small pats of retreat.

She turned to face the wall, on toe. There was a mountain of information before her, an entire tree of family stories, and fuckups.

She did her best to poor over the small print and pictures – to gain some information - _more than names_.

She was getting a decent gist she thought. The Sons led a bloody life of hierarchy. There were twists and shocking turns in their history. It was most riveting. She found herself unbelievably engrossed, even transfixed.

Her phone buzzed and brought her out of focus; a private number, just a series of zeros.

"Hello?"

"Is this uh, Lily?" A female voice, soft but demanding.

"This is. May ask who's calling."

"A daughter. Can we meet?"

_A daughter_? "Certainly. Where?"

"There's a parking garage around the corner from the clubhouse. Seven o'clock, come alone."

The phone went dead with disconnection. She had never received a call quite like this one before. It was obvious, quite immediately, that this was the beginning of all of things she was after. She was in, she thought. She couldn't help but to smirk a bit.

A secretary, aged but haughty and covered in well fit – if not bursting - clothing stepped into the room to find her in this state. She was cradling a coffee and a plethora of sugars and creams, small stirring sticks.

"I told the Lieutenant I didn't want any, but thank you."

The woman stopped in her tracks, pausing for a moment, and then proceeded to place the beverage and it's additions on the table, leaving a small smear of condensation.

"He says to tell you to consider investing in a new wardrobe, perhaps some leather and metal." She withdrew a bundle of crisp bills from her pocket and set them on to the table. Without another word she turned to exit.

* * *

Lucy stepped from a dirty taxi and onto crunching pavement.

"Will you wait?"

"For 20 bucks extra. " She threw the near end of the police department money through the passenger window.

She was a walking with the slow gait of someone with new shoes. Her pants were also too tight, a perpetual wedgey.

All the same she oddly felt confident. Fierce cloths make for fierce personality.

She made her first few steps into the garage, she wasn't sure what to be looking for, but a large black vehicle seemed to be the only one in sight. She walked over to it without much hesitation. At approach the passenger door flew open, she climbed inside.

As expected, and to some relief, a woman sat behind the wheel.

"Did you call me here to kill me?" The question came suddenly, possibly urged by the desolate surroundings or the tinted windows, or the way the woman was sporting sunglasses as black as the truck.

"That depends. Have you done anything wrong?"

"Not yet today."

"Are you planning to?"

Lucy shook her head.

"Nice rags." The woman moved her hand to lower her shades. "Is that a tattoo I see?"

"I'm well inked."

"Any club stuff?"

Another head shake.

"Planning on getting some?"

Lucy made no response to this, just stared forward, unmoving.

"Hm." The woman removed her shades completely from her face. "I'm Gemma Teller."

"The mother."

"The mother? The old lady."

"Alright then."

"What you offered my boys is risky business. Being a spy. What's your motive?"

"I'm not trying to hurt your club, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just after some inspiration, an experience."

"My club is more than just a thrill ride."

"Look, what is this about?"

"I want you to do it." Gemma took a deep breath. "My Son he – he has a lot of pressure right now, taking over. Keeping the heat at bay sounds like heaven at present. His family, the club, me, we all just need some quiet time."

"If you're letting me in then what's with the theatrics?"

"I'm just one person honey, not even a member. If you want to get 'in' your going to have to prove yourself."

"By doing what?"

"You're going to have to kill someone. Someone bad."

Gemma reached over and with one red painted finger she pressed the release on the glove box. A solid .22 was relieved, shining in all of its glory.

* * *

**End of Chapter Two**

_Gaaaah! I hate to say it, but please review. Hits and story follows don't motivate._


	3. Chapter 3

It was entirely too early but Lucy couldn't sleep. Her head was on her pillows and her comforter was cool sleek heaven but there was a fly buzzing around her head accompanied by a twinge of apprehension and maybe some fear.

She slid out of bed, even though the hypothetical roosters hadn't crowed and the sun had yet to make an appearance. She showered, letting cold water beat away summer sweat and some of her worries.

She stepped out, fresh, and went to her wardrobe to dress. She had fallen quite gracefully into her new set of clothing, adapting a new mindset to go match. She doned a silver studded brassier, and a pair of shiny cloth pants, brushed through her matted brown locks a few times, and then began the trek to her study.

Her computer was waiting for her, illuminating the gloom, the keys smooth to her touch. She poured over a word document, letting out the bulk of her emotions, while she waited patiently for her second call from Gemma Teller.

* * *

"The hit's name is John Doe." She pulled a glossy 5 by 7 from the glove box, it depicted a man's face. Your average Joe, tall and slender but not without any bulk, thick facial hair.

Lucy shot Gemma a look of question.

"Okay, his name doesn't matter. He's a rapist and a murderer. "

"What'd he do to the club?"

"I couldn't get you a club hit; I don't have that much access. The police force is after this guy. Three of his victims have been found, just this week, chained to fences and bloodied in allies all up and down 6th Street. Don't worry, honey, you'll be doing the world a favor."

"Who said I was worried?"

Gemma appraised Lucy with a look that must have been classic Gemma. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips pursed, contemplating.

"You're going to do this, aren't you?"

"How do I find the guy? I'm going to prove to you that I'm on your side."

"Well I'm not totally useless. I got his address." She pulled a pink post-it note from the mirror above her head. "Want me to take you?"

"Not necessary. Just hand it over. " And she stepped from Gemma's vehicle once again.

* * *

"They want me to kill a guy, Lieutenant, prove I've got what it takes."

"Does he deserve to die?"

"I dunno. He's done bad stuff."

"Have you killed before?"

"No." The word came out quick.

"You do what you think best, but leave me out of this bit. I'll see you tomorrow."

She put the cell phone in her pocket and resumed pacing. For twenty minutes she'd been pacing along a fence outside this guy's dwellings. There had been no noise from inside but Lucy didn't doubt Gemma Teller. If she said he was here, then here he was.

She figured twenty minutes was enough time to build up nerve and she made her way up his walk, knocked on his front door. He answered, unmistakably the guy from the photo, dressed in boxers and a towel around his neck, his hair dripping.

"I don't mean to disturb, but uh, my car's smoking, just around the corner. Got a friendly phone? I need to call a tow."

"Sure." He stepped aside, making room to pass, no hesitation letting a woman into his home. "Let me grab a shirt." He turned to retreat down a wood paneled hall. She made slow steps to follow him. He turned into a door and stood before his dresser, started opening drawers.

She stepped up right behind him, rested her hand on his back. He grabbed her hand with unexpected softness, trailed to his stomach, started pushing it down and farther still.

She put her lips to his ear as if to whisper. He made a low growl of appreciation. She used her free hand to pull the small piece from her waist band. She softly pulled the safely.

He was quick to react, spin around, but she was quick too. She pressed the small barrel to his chest.

One two, click click. He was dead.

* * *

"It's done, Mrs. Teller."

"It's Gemma. See you at the clubhouse, seven o'clock."

Once again on the cement, she looked up to the sun. It was shining brighter than usual.

* * *

**End of Chapter 3**


End file.
